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CHARIES  HANSON 
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A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 
CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 


A    WORLD 
OF  WINDOWS 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

BY 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

AUTHOR  OP  "MANHATTAN,"  "YOUTH,"  "BEYOND  THE  STARS," 
"THE  QUIET  SINGER,"  "TODAY  AND  TOMORROW,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
OWEN  JOHNSON 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  poems  included  in 
this  volume,  the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  the  fol 
lowing  magazines:  Harper's,  The  Century,  The  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  The  American,  The  Outlook,  The 
Cosmopolitan,  Everybody's,  The  Pictorial  Review,  The 
Delineator,  The  Designer,  Good  Housekeeping,  Mun- 
seys,  Ainslee's,  Life,  The  Forum,  The  Chronicle,  The 
Touchstone,  The  Smart  Set,  and  the  New  York  Tribune. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 13 

THE  TIME-CLOCK l6 

THE  DARKNESS 19 

FOR  THE  FUNERAL  OF  AN  AVIATOR 2O 

A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  GIFT  OF  SONG 21 

A  VOICE  AT  MORNING *.  22 

LIGHT  LOVE 23 

THE  LITTLE  HOME  PAPER 24 

THE  LOITERER 26 

LOVE'S  SURETY ,27 

THE  SHELL 28 

IN  AN  ITALIAN  GARDEN 29 

THE  HOSTS  OF  APRIL 30 

TO  ONE  IN  HEAVEN 32 

WHEN  I  AM  DUST 34 

OF  ONE  SELF-SLAIN 35 

THE  OLD  LOVELINESS 36 

IN  SUMMER 37 

THE  BEST  ROAD  OF  ALL 38 

THE  SHADOW 40 

A  LOVE  SONG 4! 

ONE  KISS 42 

OLD  HOUSES 43 

HOW  WILL  IT  SEEM? 44 

ON  SOME  RECENT  ALLIED  VICTORIES        ....  45 

ITALIA   IN    EXCELSIS 46 

M 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

TO  A  STRICKEN  WORLD 47 

A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  OLD  COURAGE 48 

RUINS 49 

AFTERWARDS 51 

TO  WALTER  HAMPDEN  AS  "HAMLET" 53 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT       54 

CITY  FLASHES 

THE  BUS  CONDUCTOR 57 

THE  BLIND 59 

TELEPHONES 60 

THE  PEOPLE  IN  THE  PARK 6l 

SUNDAY  EVENING 62 

ON  SEEING  A  NUN  IN  A  TAXICAB         .....  64 

SUNDAY  IN  AN  OFFICE  BUILDING 65 

AROUND  THE  CORNER 66 

THE  USHER 67 

THE  MESSENGER  BOY 70 

IN  A  DEPARTMENT  STORE 71 

WAR-TIME  PORTRAITS 

STEPHEN 77 

THE  YOUNG  AMBULANCE-DRIVER 8l 

JACK  LE  MAR 84 

JIM  SMITH 85 

YOUNG  RUPERT 87 

A  CERTAIN  ENGLISH  ACTOR 89 

WILLIE  LAMB 90 


[x] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


A  WORLD   OF   WINDOWS 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 

BEHIND  my  house  are  windows, 
Each  lit  with  yellow  flame, 

And  each  one  is  a  little  world 
Set  in  a  little  frame. 

A  shop-girl,  through  her  mirror, 
Looks  at  her  ashen  face. 

Below  her,  in  a  peignoir 
Of  shabby,  dirty  lace, 

A  woman,   stout  and  lazy, 

Sits  playing  solitaire; 
Dishevelled  is  her  ill-lit  room, 

And  tumbled  is  her  hair. 

There  is  one  little  window 
Set  high  above  the  rest; 

I  see  the  edge  of  an  iron  bed, 
And  a  young  girl  thinly  dressed, 

[13] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


Her  face  is  full  of  sorrow — 
Oit&  seldom  sees  her  laugh ; 

Each  night  she  bends  above  an  old 
And  faded  photograph. 

She  takes  it  from  the  bureau 
In  that  small,  stuffy  place; 

One  evening,  I  could  almost  see 
The  tears  upon  her  face, 

When  the  wild  gas-jet  flickered 

Above  her  heavy  hair. 
That  whole  long  night  I  saw  her, 

An  image  of  despair, 


Beside  her  tiny  window 

Gazing  at  the  white  moon. 

I  wondered  what  her  life  must  be — 
Had  Love  gone  by  so  soon? 

A  week  dragged  on;  her  shutters 
Were  drawn,  as  if  to  hide 

The  little  drama  of  her  world; 
And  then — one  night — she  died. 

She  killed  herself.     I  read  the  truth, 
Hidden  among  the  news — 

A  little  item,  stale  enough: 
How  many  love — and  lose! 

.[HI 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


Three  days — and  then  another  girl 
Took  up  her  story  there. 

Two  flights  below,  a  woman  still 
Sat  playing  solitaire, 

In  the  same  shabby  peignoir 

Of  yellow,  dirty  lace, 
And  the  poor  shop-girl,  in  her  glass, 

Looked  at  her  pallid  face. 

Behind  my  house  are  windows, 
Each  lit  with  yellow  flame; 

Each  is  a  world  for  some  one 
Who  plays  the  old,  old  game. 

And  when  one  world  is  emptied, 
Through  terror  or  disgrace, 

How  soon  another  brave  one  comes 
To  fill  the  vacant  place ! 


THE  TIME-CLOCK 


"TICK-TOCK!  Tick-tock!" 
Sings  the  great  time-clock. 
And  the  pale  men  hurry, 
And  flurry  and  scurry 
To  punch  their  time 
Ere  the  hour  shall  chime. 
"Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!" 
Sings  the  stern  time-clock. 

"It — is — time — you — were — come  I1 
Says  the  pendulum. 
"Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!" 
Moans  the  big  time-clock. 
They  must  leave  the  heaven 
Of  their  beds.   ...  It  is  seven, 
And  the  sharp  whistles  blow 
In  the  city  below. 
They  can  never  delay — 
If  they're  late,  they  must  pay. 
"God  help  them!"  I  say. 
But  the  great  time-clock 
Only  says,  "Tick-tock!1 
[16] 


" 


THE  TIME-CLOCK 


They  are  chained,  they  are  slaves 

From  their  birth  to  their  graves! 

And  the  clock 

Seems  to  mock 

With  its  awful  "tick-tock!" 

There  it  stands  at  the  door 

Like  a  brute,  as  they  pour 

Through  the  dark  narrow  way 

Where  they  toil  night  and  day. 

They  are  goaded  along 

By  the  terrible  song 

Of  whistle  and  gong, 

And  the  endless  uTick-tock!n. 

Of  the  great  time-clock. 

uTick-tock!     Tick-tock!" 
Runs  the  voice  of  the  clock. 


II 


Some  day  it  will  cease ! 
They  will  all  be  at  peace, 
And  dream  a  new  dream 
Far  from  shuttle  and  steam. 
And  whistles  may  blow, 
And  whistles  may  scream — 
They  will  smile— -even  so, 
And  dream  their  new  dream. 

[17] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


But  the  clock  will  tick  on 
When  their  bodies  are  gone; 
And  others  will  hurry, 
And  scurry  and  worry, 
While  uTick-tock!   Tick-tock!" 
Whispers  the  clock. 

uTick-tock!    Tick-tock! 

Tick-tock!   Tick-tock!" 

Forever  runs  on  the  song  of  the  clock 


Ti8] 


THE  DARKNESS 

THE  darkness  has  been  very  kind  to  me; 

She  has  shut  out  the  white  flame  of  the  world, 
Hidden  the  sun  of  sorrow  when  it  hurled 

Its  beam  on  me,  and  I  was  lost  in  light! 

She  brought  the  velvet  healing  of  the  night 
When  I  was  frantic  with  the  staring  day, 
Till  round  about  me  her  great  spirit  lay, 
A  waveless  ocean,  drowning  my  dismay. 

The  darkness  has  been  very  kind  to  me; 

Like  a  still  prayer  thought  by  a  lonely  nun 
Her  quiet  is;  the  day's  griefs,  one  by  one, 
Drift  to  the  shore  of  long-forgotten  things, 
And  hushed  are  the  loud  earth's  old  echoings. 
Deep  in  her  bosom,  deep,  oh,  very  deep, 
I  hide  my  head  when  her  first  shadows  creep, 
And  sink  at  last  within  the  pool  of  Sleep. 


[19] 


FOR  THE  FUNERAL  OF  AN  AVIATOR 

LET  not  the  earth  confine  him 
Who  loved  the  air  and  sky; 

To  no  thin  grave  consign  him, 
Now  he  has  come  to  die; 

But  let  his  tomb  forever  be 

High  as  the  heavens,  broad  as  the  sea. 

From  this  exultant,  splendid, 
Great  hill,  now  hurl  his  dust, 

Until  his  ashes,  blended 

With  the  four  winds  august, 

Become  a  part  of  them  at  last, 

And  sail  forever  on  the  blast! 


[20] 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  GIFT  OF  SONG 

IF  I  could  leave  one  song  behind 
To  tell  of  all  the  joy  I  knew, 

To  show  the  world  that  Life  is  kind, 
Because  it  held  the  moon — and  You; 

Then  gladly  would  I  go  from  these 
Enchanted  days  to  Death's  dark  night. 

Dear  God,  who  filled  my  years  with  peace, 
Help  me  to  sing,  and  sing  aright. 


[21] 


A  VOICE  AT  MORNING 

BEYOND  the  great  frontiers  of  dawn 

I  heard  the  singing  of  a  bird. 

O  fluted  eloquence !     O  word 
That  from  the  harps  of  heaven  was  drawn! — 

What  rapture  to  the  gates  of  light 

You  brought  when  the  last  stars  grew  pale. 
Were  you  a  lonely  nightingale, 

Blown  down  the  windy  wastes  of  white? 

Or  were  you  some  ecstatic  dream 
A  child  had  dreamed  and  cast  aside? 
You  floated  on  the  ether's  tide, 

As  bubbles  float  upon  a  stream. 

You  reached  my  heart  at  last.     You  bore 
A  message  from  the  distant  spheres ; 
You  were  a  silver  sound,  like  tears 

Shed  by  the  saints,  or  sad  Lenore. 

You  were  the  gospel  of  the  day, 
The  frozen  wonder  of  the  dawn. 
O  lovely  bird,  sing  on,  sing  on !  ... 

Alas !  all  beauty  fades  away. 

[22] 


LIGHT  LOVE 

THE  love  that  is  not  quite  love — 

Ah!  let  us  be  kind  to  it! 
For  it  bears  a  touch  of  the  dream  above, 

The  passion  exquisite. 

The  love  that  is  not  quite  love, 

But  only  a   fleeting  thing, 
Like  the  wraith  of  rain  in  an  Autumn  lane, 

Or  the  thought  of  an  unborn  Spring. 

The  love  that  is  not  quite  love, 

The  careless,  happy  glance; 
But  deep  in  its  heart  it  holds  a  part 

Of  glamour  and  high  romance. 

A  flash  from  the  fire  divine, 
A  glimpse  of  the  page  unwrit; 

The  youthful  love  that  is  not  quite  love — 
Ah!  let  us  be  kind  to  it! 


[23] 


THE  LITTLE  HOME  PAPER 

THE  little  home  paper  comes  to  me, 

As  badly  printed  as  it  can  be ; 

It's  ungrammatical,  cheap,  absurd — 

Yet  how  I  love  each  intimate  word ! 

For  here  am  I  in  the  teeming  town, 

Where  the  sad,  mad  people  rush  up  and  down, 

And  it's  good  to  get  back  to  the  old  lost  place, 

And  gossip  and  smile  for  a  little  space. 

The  weather  is  hot;  the  corn  crop's  good; 
They've  had  a  picnic  in  Sheldon's  Wood. 
And  Aunt  Maria  was  sick  last  week; 
Ike  Morrison's  got  a  swollen  cheek, 
And  the  Squire  was  hurt  in  a  runaway — 
More  shocked  than  bruised,  I'm  glad  they  say. 
Bert  Wills — I  used  to  play  ball  with  him — 
Is  working  a  farm  with  his  Uncle  Jim. 

The  Red  Cross  ladies  gave  a  tea, 
And  raised  quite  a  bit.    Old  Sol  MacPhee 
Has  sold  his  house  on  Lincoln  Road — 
He  couldn't  carry  so  big  a  load. 
The  Methodist  minister's  had  a  call 
From  a  wealthy  parish  near  St.  Paul. 
And  old  Herb  Sweet  is  married  at  last — 
He  was  forty-two.     How  the  years  rush  past! 

[24] 


THE  LITTLE  HOME  PAPER 


But  here's  an  item  that  makes  me  see 
What  a  puzzling  riddle  life  can  be. 
uEd  Stokes,"  it  reads,  "was  killed  in  France 
When  the  Allies  made  their  last  advance." 
Ed  Stokes!     That  boy  with  the  laughing  eyes 
As  blue  as  the  early-Summer  skies ! 
He  wouldn't  have  killed  a  fly — and  yet, 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  regret 

He  left  the  peace  of  our  little  place, 

And  went  away  with  a  light  in  his  face ; 

For  out  in  the  world  was  a  job  to  do, 

And  he   wouldn't   come   home  till  he'd  seen   it 

through!  .  .  . 

Four  thousand  miles  from  our  tiny  town 
And  its  hardware  store,  this  boy  went  down. 
Such  a  quiet  lad,  such  a  simple  chap — 
But  he's  put  East  Dunkirk  on  the  map ! 


[251 


THE  LOITERER 

I  HUNGER  for  the  Spring, 
For  April's  green  delight; 

O  long,  long  loitering 

Of  Winter's  piercing  night! 

Hark!  in  the  trees  one  bird, 
And  in  the  grass  one  star ! 

One  lovely,  silver  word, 
Though  tremulous  and  far. 

But  in  that  flower  the  soul 
Of  hidden  April  wakes; 

And  in  that  sound  the  whole 
Mad  heart  of  Music  breaks. 


[26] 


LOVE'S  SURETY 

How  dare  we  whisper,  Love,  we  will  be  true 
Till  the  last  stars  and  the  last  tides  are  gone? 

Do  not  the  high  gods,  hearing  me  and  you, 
Smile,  and  pass  on? 

Lovers  have  told  their  love — and  broken  great 

vows; 
Lovers    have   promised — and   the   years   have 

found 

Two  faithless  ones,  grief  written  on  their  brows, 
In  separate  ground. 

Yet  we  dare  whisper  the  old  promises, 

Look  in   each  others'   eyes,   and  Love's  wine 
quaff; 

In  some  far  place,  bordered  with  laurel  trees, 
Do  the  gods  laugh  ? 


[27] 


THE  SHELL 

THE  city  is  a  monstrous  shell 

Forever  at  my  ear; 
Deep  voluntary,  clanging  bell 

And  thundering  grief  I  hear. 

Can  all  the  sounds  within  it  be 

Far  echoes  of  the  past? 
Then   from    what   unremembered   sea 

Was  this  great  shell  upcast? 

Is  some  old  sorrow  singing  yet, 
Some  pain  of  Greece  or  Rome? 

Some  theme  that  Time  may  not  forget, 
As  shells  still  sing  of  home? 

O  lonely  City!     Who  can  tell 
What  anguish  you  have  known, 

When  on  this  coast,  a  shattered  shell, 
Your  tragic  tale  is  blown? 

And  we  who  whisper  in  your  heart, 
And  weep  our  scalding  tears, 

May  be  but  echoes  from  the  start 
Of  the  world's  sounding  years ! 

[28] 


IN  AN  ITALIAN  GARDEN- 
HARK!  through  the  velvet  dark  I  heard 

Cascades  of  sound,  like  living  light: 
One  tremulous,  ecstatic  bird — 

The  Galli-Curci  of  the  night! 


[29] 


THE  HOSTS  OF  APRIL 

BEHOLD  young  April's  banners 
Upon  the  boughs  of  Spring! 

In  every  glade  and  marshland 
Green  flags  are  shimmering. 

The  great  blue  armies  of  the  Lord 
Thunder,  and  stir,  and  sing! 

In  yellow,  bright  battalions 
The  hosts  of  April  come; 

There  is  a  sounding  chorus, 
The  faint  tap  of  a  drum, 

And  in  the  woods'  deep  bivouac 
A  strange  delirium. 

Now  every  shy  earth  creature 

Advances  in  the  dawn, 
For  the  black  ranks  of  Winter 

Have  suddenly  withdrawn; 
A  glory  marches  through  the  world 

And  camps  upon  my  lawn. 

I  hear  the  pipers  playing 
Upon  their  golden  flutes; 

Hark  to  the  martial  music 
Of  all  the  forest  lutes ! 
[30] 


THE  HOSTS  OF  APRIL 


A  myriad  cymbals  crash  and  beat, 
And  the  glad  world  salutes. 

Behind  the  flowery  victors, 

Close  in  their  royal  train, 
I  see  another  army 

Sweep  over  hill  and  plain — 
It  is  a  purple  regiment 

With  slanting  swords  of  rain. 

O  passionate  invasion, 

Desired,  long-dreamed-of  time ! 
Rush  through  our  hearts  with  rapture, 

Erase  Life's  dust  and  grime; 
For  now  the  heavens  have  bent  to  earth 

In  the  year's  silver  prime. 

There  never  moved  an  army 

With  such  a  lordly  swing; 
The  waiting  earth  is  jubilant 

At  such  sweet  conquering. 
Victoriously  come  once  more 

The  valiant  hosts  of  Spring! 


TO  ONE  IN  HEAVEN 

AFTER  you  died,  a  few  stray  letters  came, 
Bearing  your  name. 
A  friend  across  the  sea 

Wrote  with  the  old  light  laughter;  tenderly 
She  wished  that  you  were  with  her,  never  knowing 
That  now  for  you  the  winds  of  heaven  were  blow 
ing; 

That  you  were  faring  to  a  distant  bourne, 
Whence  your  white  feet  would  nevermore  return. 

And  then  there  came, 

Like  little  bundles  of  flame, 

Bright-coloured    ribbons — red,    and   yellow,    and 

blue, 

Samples  from  some  gay  shop,  dainty  as  you. 
A  bit  of  lace,  a  bit  of  gossamer, 
A  rainbow  sheaf,  like  dreams  that  never  were. 
And  when  I  saw  them,  through  my  blinding  tears, 
I  thought  of  your  bright  years, 
Your  love  of  all  this  filmy  green  and  gold — 
And  your  brief  story  told. 

I  hope  the  angels  give  you  your  desire, 
O  little  heart  of  fire — 

[32] 


TO  ONE  IN  HEAVEN 


Give  you  the  fairy  garments  that  you  crave 

Even  beyond  the  grave! 

You  would  not  be  quite  happy  in  your  new  place 

Without  your  golden  lace, 

Without  those  little,  trivial,  tender  things 

The  looms  wove  out  of  dim  imaginings. 

For  you  loved  feathery  textures,  airy  spinnings, 

Like  cobwebs  from  the  world's  remote  beginnings ; 

Soft  stuffs  as  fleecy  as  the  clouds  above, 

That  grew  more  lovely  for  your  lovely  love. 

Who  knows  but  now  your  wings  may  be  of  fleece, 
Your  robe  of  some  fine  fabric  made  of  these : 
Rainbows  and  star-dust  and  a  lost  moonbeam, 
And  a  white  thought  from  Lady  Mary's  dream 
Of  that  first  moment  when  she  knew  that  One 
Would  live  through  her.  ...  Is  this  your  gar 
ment,  spun 

From  rapture  at  the  living  loom  of  heaven? 
O  little  angel-maid,  God's  gifts  are  freely  given ! 


.[33] 


WHEN  I  AM  DUST 

WHEN  I  am  dust,  the  stars  and  the  grey  sea 
Shall  go  on  shining  and  singing — but  not  for  me. 

When  I  am  gone,  the  gospel  of  the  grass 
Shall  still  be  uttered — but  not  for  me,  alas! 

And  when  my  feet  on  their  last  journey  turn, 
Still  in  the  heavens  the  sunset  fires  shall  burn; 
I 

Still  in  the  woods  the  nightingales  shall  sing 
As  once  for  me  on  a  white  day  of  Spring. 

And  folk  shall  move,  and  smile,  and  speak,  and 

nod; 
But  I  shall  be  away — at  home  with  God. 


[34] 


OF  ONE  SELF-SLAIN 

WHEN  he  went  blundering  back  to  God, 
His  songs  half  written,  his  work  half  done, 

Who  knows  what  paths  his  bruised  feet  trod, 
What  hills  of  peace  or  pain  he  won? 

I  hope  God  smiled,  and  took  his  hand, 
And  said,  "Poor  truant,  passionate  fool! 

Life's  book  is  hard  to  understand: 

Why  couldst  thou  not  remain  at  school?" 


[35] 


THE  OLD  LOVELINESS 

No  beauty  lasts;  no  dream  stays  on; 
Earth  wheels  from  ghostly  dawn  to  dawn. 
And  soon,  ah!  soon,  the  red  moon  pales, 
And  even  golden  Sirius  fails. 

O  whither,  like  a  phantom  goes 
The  royal  crimson  of  the  rose? 
Behind  what  rampart  of  the  night 
Retreats  the  sun's  imperial  light? 

We  do  not  know;  we  only  guess: 
Yet  loveliness  crowds  loveliness, 
And  every  starlit  evening  seems 
More  wonderful  than  vanished  dreams. 


[36] 


IN  SUMMER 

THE  days  drift  by — as  ships  drift  out  to  sea : 
Morning,  high  noon,  twilight's  tranquillity. 

And  then — the  peace  the  honeyed  evening  brings 
With  the  large  moon  and  old  rememberings. 

Old  memories,  old  raptures,  old  desires, 
Old  joys  return,  and  Youth's  immortal  fires; 

Old  loves  that  still  around  the  spirit  lie 
And  whisper  of  long  Summer  days  gone  by. 

O  rapture  of  the  world  that  crowds  to-night 
About  my  soul,  and  brings  back  lost  delight, 

Bid  me  farewell  when  the  last  stars  awake, 

Or  else  my  wounded  heart  will  break,  will  break! 


[37] 


THE  BEST  ROAD  OF  ALL 

I  LIKE  a  road  that  leads  away  to  prospects  white 

and  fair, 

A  road  that  is  an  ordered  road,  like  a  nun's  eve 
ning  prayer; 
But,  best  of  all,  I  love  a  road  that  leads  to  God 

knows  where. 

You  come  upon  it  suddenly — you  cannot  seek  it 

out; 
It's  like  a  secret  still  unheard  and  never  noised 

about; 
But  when  you  see  it,  gone  at  once  is  every  lurking 

doubt. 

It  winds  beside  some  rushing  stream  where  aspens 
lightly  quiver; 

It  follows  many  a  broken  field  by  many  a  shining 
river; 

It  seems  to  lead  you  on  and  on,  forever  and  for 
ever! 

You    tramp    along    its    dusty    way,    beneath    its 

shadowy  trees, 
And  hear  beside  you  chattering  birds  or  happy 

booming  bees, 
And  all  around  you  golden  sounds,  the  green 

leaves'  litanies. 

[38] 


THE  BEST  ROAD  OF  ALL 


And  here's  a  hedge,  and  there's  a  cot;  and  then — 

strange,  sudden  turns; 
A  dip,  a  rise,  a  little  glimpse  where  the  red  sunset 

burns; 
A  bit  of  sky  at  eveningtime,  the  scent  of  hidden 

ferns. 

A  winding  road,  a  loitering  road,  a  finger-mark  of 

God 
Traced  when  the  Maker  of  the  world  leaned  over 

ways  untrod. 
See!  Here  He  smiled  His  glowing  smile,  and  lo, 

the  goldenrod ! 

I  like  a  road  that  wanders  straight;  the  King's 

highway  is  fair, 
And  lovely  are  the  sheltered  lanes  that  take  you 

here  and  there; 
But,  best  of  all,  I  love  a  road  that  leads  to  God 

knows  where. 


[39] 


THE  SHADOW 

I  SAW  your  shadow  on  the  lawn 
Before  the  crimson  sun  had  gone — 
A  phantom,  a  dark  ghost  of  you 
That  changed  and  more  mysterious  grew 
As  the  light  faded  from  the  world 
And  daylight  into  darkness  whirled. 

I  loved  that  curious  grotesque, 
That  strange  and  shapeless  arabesque; 
That  dim  suggestion  of  your  hair, 
That  monstrous  drawing  of  you  there; 
That  whimsical  design  which  seemed 
Like  something  that  a  madman  dreamed. 

For  it  was  you — and  yet  not  you; 

True  in  intention — yet  untrue; 

As  if,  in  sleep,  a  demon  came 

And  backward  wrote  your  lovely  name. 

It  was  like  music  out  of  key — 

Yet  O,  how  wonderful  to  me! 


[40] 


A  LOVE  SONG 

"WE  perish  like  the  Summer  moth; 

We  vanish  like  the  rainbow's  hue." 
Thus  mumble  deep  philosophers: 

And  yet  I  go  on  loving  you ! 

"We  fade  like  sunsets;  go  like  rain. 

Man's  moment  is  a  fleeting  thing." 
Hark  to  the  sages  of  the  world ! — 

Yet  round  my  throat  your  arms  still  cling. 

"Life  is  a  bubble  in  a  glass ; 

Love  is  a  madness.     Both  shall  be 
Consumed  like  snow  beneath  the  sun"  .  .  . 

And  yet  you  go  on  loving  me ! 


ONE  KISS 

THROUGH  the  dim  years  we  may  recall 

Tristan  and  Iseult's  kiss; 
And  that  first  moment — best  of  all — 

Of  Abelard's  wild  bliss. 

And  Helen's  holy  moment  when 
To  one  her  lips  she  turned; 

Long,  long  within  the  breasts  of  men 
Its  golden  fire  has  burned. 

Kisses  of  love,  when  love  first  came — 
They  shall  outlast  the  grave. 

But  oh,  that  deathless  kiss  of  shame — 
The  kiss  that  Judas  gave ! 


[42] 


OLD  HOUSES 

I  LOVE  old  houses,  with  vines  running  over, 
Set  in  a  riot  of  roses  and  clover, 
Set  in  a  wonder  of  old,  old  trees, 
Dreaming  of  far,  dim  memories. 

I  love  their  windows,  like  old  eyes 
That  seem  to  look  into  paradise. 
If  the  old,  old  houses  could  speak  to  us 
Out  of  their  glory  ruinous! 

If  ghosts  could  pass  through  dusty  halls 
Where  Love  held  holy  carnivals, 
And  the  ancient  words  could  be  said  once  more, 
When  a  young  bride  passed  through  the  friendly 
door! 

If  the  dead  could  return,  return  and  speak, 
And  kiss  again  one  rose-red  cheek ! 
And  yet,  'tis  better  we  do  not  know 
The  sad,  mad  stories  of  long  ago. 

Let  the  old,  old  houses  their  secrets  keep; 
Leave  them  alone  in  their  quiet  sleep. 
They  are  like  old  folk  who  nod  by  the  fire, 
Glad  with  their  dreams  of  youth  and  desire. 

[43] 


HOW  WILL  IT  SEEM? 

How  will  it  seem  when  Peace  comes  back  once 
more, 

After  these  desperate  days  of  shattering  pain? 

How  will  it  be  with  all  of  us  again, 
When  hushed  forever  is  the  thunder  of  War? 
There  still  are  primroses  by  many  a  shore; 

And  still  there  bloom,  in  many  a  lovely  lane, 

Hawthorn  and  lilacs;  and  the  roses'  stain 
Is  red  against  full  many  a  garden  door. 

O  days  to  be !     O  honeyed  nights  of  sleep, 

When  the  white  moon  shall  mount  the  quiet  sky! 
Shall  we  be  wholly  happy  when  buds  creep, 
Remembering  those  who  dared  to  bleed  and 

die? 

Can  we  be  glad  again?     Nay,  we  shall  weep 
For  those  who  told  this  sad,  glad  world  good 
bye. 


[44] 


ON  SOME  RECENT  ALLIED  VICTORIES 

BE  humble,  O  my  country!     In  this  hour. 
Remember  there  are  fiery  paths  to  cross, 
Undreamed-of  anguish  and  unreckoned  loss 

To  face  with  courage,  ere  the  perfect  flower 

Of  Peace  shall  blossom  after  hell's  red  shower. 
Be  confident;  be  brave;  yet  also  be 
Like  the  great  Christ  in  His  humility; 

Be  mindful  of  the  purpose  of  your  power. 

It  is  not  gain  you  seek.     It  is  not  praise. 

Therefore  let  pride  be  buried  in  the  dust. 

Fight  on,  foregetful  of  this  flaming  dower 
Of  sudden  victory.     There  shall  be  days 

Of  darkness  when  your  bright  steel  seems  like 
rust.  .  .  . 

Be  humble,  O  my  country,  in  this  hour! 


*5J 


ITALIA  IN  EXCELSIS 


Now  she  has  risen  from  her  dreams  of  ease, 
Mighty  at  last,  her  soul  recharged  with  fire. 
She  leaves  her  olive-groves,  and  high  and  higher 

Climbs  toward  blue  heaven  upon  her  very  knees. 

O  let  her  roses  perish  !     What  of  these 
In  this  wild  hour,  if  in  her  heart  expire 
The  prayer  that  led  her  to  this  white  desire 

For  peace  that  shall  outlive  the  centuries? 

Go  higher  still,  brave  host!     Mount  up  to  God 
Until  you  storm  the  ramparts  of  the  sky! 

Our  souls  are  climbing  with  you.     Iron  shod 
Shall  be  your  feet;  the  peaks  of  dawn  defy. 

Then  from  those  crests  and  crags  of  blinding  snow 

Pour  down  your  thunder  on  the  world  below  ! 


[46] 


TO  A  STRICKEN  WORLD 

BE  not  disheartened,  weary  world,  since  War 

With  iron  teeth  gnaws  at  the  gates  of  Life. 

This  pain  shall  pass;  this  horror  and  this  strife 
Shall  vanish.     All  this  grief  that  we  deplore 
Shall  fade,  and  the  white  gods  we  waited  for, 

Out  of  the  mist  may  come  with  healing  hands. 

There  is  so  much  that  no  one  understands: 
The  earth  in  darkness,  heaven's  bolted  door. 

But  what  of  all  the  sins  that  never  cease? — 

Our  sleek  content  with  inequality, 
Our  placid  ease  through  years  of  so-called  peace, 

When  the  pale  poor  weep  everlastingly; 

Our  dumb  acceptance  of  red  wrongs  that  be — 
O  what  of  these,  blind  world — yea,  what  of  these? 


[47] 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  OLD  COURAGE 

STILL  let  us  go  the  way  of  beauty;  go 
The  way  of  loveliness;  still  let  us  know 
Those  paths  that  lead  where  Pan  and  Daphne  run, 
Where  roses  prosper  in  the  Summer  sun. 

The  earth  may  rock  with  War.    Still  is  there  peace 
In  many  a  place  to  give  the  heart  release 
From  this  too-vibrant  pain  that  drives  men  mad. 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  old  love  we  had. 

Let  us  go  back,  to  keep  alive  the  gleam, 
To  cherish  the  immortal,  God-like  dream; 
Not  as  poor  cravens  flying  from  the  fight, 
But  as  sad  children  seeking  the  clean  light. 

O  doubly  precious  now  is  solitude; 
Thrice  dear  yon  quiet  star  above  the  wood, 
Since  panic  and  the  sundering  shock  of  War 
Have  laid  in  ruins  all  we  hungered  for. 

Brave  soldiers  of  the  spirit,  guard  ye  well 
Mountain  and  fort  and  massive  citadel; 
But  keep  ye  white  forever — keep  ye  whole 
The  battlements  of  dream  within  the  soul ! 

[48] 


RUINS 

[For  Christian  Brinton~\ 

THEY  sat  at  supper  in  a  shadowy  room. 
"But  you,"  she  said,  ''''you  are  an  artist!     You 
Deplore  this  tearing  down  of  all  our  dreams ! 
You  know  that  War  is  shattering  the  world, 
And  Beauty  falls  in  ashes  at  our  feet." 

He  looked  at  her,  full-blown  and  glorious 
With  flaming  eyes  and  tossed,  abundant  hair. 

"How  I  abhor  this  hour!"  he  softly  said. 

"I  never  thought  the  world  could  come  to  this. 

Yet  always  through  the  years,  the  flame  of  War, 

Like  a  long  crimson  serpent  has  crept  and  crept, 

And  poisoned  all  the  beauty  that  we  built. 

The  Parthenon  was  stricken  by  the  blast 

Of  cruel  cannon  in  disastrous  days; 

Yet  in  the  moonlight  it  is  wonderful 

In  a  strange  way  the  mind  can  never  name. 

And    strong   barbarian   hordes   tore    down   that 

dream, 

The  Coliseum ;  and  manly  Romans  wept. 
Yet  it  is  lovelier  on  soft  Summer  nights 
Than  ever  it  must  have  been  in  the  young  years. 

[49] 


RUINS 


And  Rheims — it  shall  be  doubly  beautiful 
With  a  new  meaning  through  the  centuries, 
Hushed  with  its  memories  of  this  dark  hour.'1 

Her  face  grew  grave.     "You  dare  to  tell  me 

this!— 

You  say  a  ruin  is  more  wonderful 
Than  the  pure  dream  the  architect  once  dreamed?" 

"I  cannot  answer.     But  one  thing  I  know: 
Men  rush  across  the  seas  to  catch  one  glimpse 
Of  fallen  fanes  and  tottering  columns.     Yes, 
They  fare  through  desolate  places  that  their  eyes 
May  rest  at  last  on  crumbling  marble.   .  .  .  See ! 
Those  men  and  women  rise — and  we  must  rise 
To  pay  our  tribute  to  that  noble  man 
Who  has  come   back,   a   ruin   from  the   War." 

She  turned.     There  was  a  soldier  at  the  door; 
And  one  sleeve  of  his  uniform  hung  limp, 
And  there  were  many  scars  upon  his  cheeks. 

11 A  ruin!"  the  artist  whispered.     "Yet  he  seems 
The  only  whole  and  perfect  man  I  knowl" 


[50] 


AFTERWARDS 

THE  sick  man  said :  "I  pray  I  shall  not  die 
Before  this  tumult  which  now  rocks  the  earth 
Shall  cease.     I  dread  far  journeyings  to  God 
Ere  I  have  heard  the  final  shots  of  War, 
And  learned  the  outcome  of  this  holocaust." 

Yet  one  night,  while  the  guns  still  roared  and 

flashed, 

His  spirit  left  his  body;  left  the  earth 
Which  he  had  loved  in  sad,  disastrous  days, 
And  sped  to  heav'n  amid  the  glittering  stars 
And  the  white  splendour  of  the  quiet  moon. 

One   instant — and   a   hundred  years   rushed  by! 
And  he,  a  new  immortal,  found  his  way 
Among  the  high  celestial  hills  of  God. 
Then  suddenly  one  memory  of  earth 
Flashed  like  a  meteor's  flame  across  his  mind. 

One  instant — and  another  hundred  years! 
And  even  the  dream  of  that  poor  little  place 
Which  he  had  known,  was  lost  in  greater  spheres 
Through  which  he  whirled;  and  old  remembrances 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


Were  but  as  flecks  of  dust  blown  down  the  night; 
And  nothing  mattered,  save  that  suns  and  moons 
Swung  in  the  ether  for  unnumbered  worlds 
High,  high  above  the  pebble  of  the  earth. 


[52] 


TO  WALTER  HAMPDEN  AS  "HAMLET" 

The  Prince  of  Denmark  lives  for  us  once  more, 
Since  you  have  opened  the  immortal  door, 
Emerged,  and  walked  within  our  eager  view, 
Young,  mad,  and  weary;  yea,  but  human  too. 

You  caught  hid  meanings  of  the  mighty  Bard; 
And    through    those    lines    with    aching    beauty 

starred, 

You  wove  a  thread  of  sound,  like  winds  at  dawn — 
Your  voice  the  thread,  each  word  a  bead  thereon. 

So  Shakespeare's  magic  lives  for  us  again; 
So  we  are  conscious  of  the  breathing  Dane, 
And,  while  we  marvel,  and  the  young  Prince  dies, 
Another  glory  shines  within  the  skies. 


[53] 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


ON  what  divine  adventure  has  he  gone? 
Beyond  what  peaks  of  dawn 
Is  he  now  faring?    On  what  errand  blest 
Has  his  impulsive  heart  now  turned?     No 

rest 

Could  be  the  portion  of  his  tireless  soul. 
He  seeks  some  frenzied  goal 
Where  he  can  labour  on  till  Time  is  not, 
And  earth  is  nothing  but  a  thing  forgot. 

II 

Pilot  and  Prophet!  as  the  years  increase 

The  sorrow  of  your  passing  will  not  cease. 

We  love  to  think  of  you  still  moving  on 

From  sun  to  blazing  sun, 

From  planet  to  far  planet,  to  some  height 

Of  clean  perfection  in  the  Infinite, 

Where  with  the  wise  Immortals  you  can  find 

The  Peace  you  fought  for  with  your  heart  and 

mind. 

Yet  from  that  bourne  where  you  are  journeying 
Sometimes  we  think  we  hear  you  whispering, 
"I  went  away,  O  world  so  false  and  true, 
I  went  away — with  still  so  much  to  do!" 

[54] 


CITY  FLASHES 


THE  BUS  CONDUCTOR 

WE'RE  happy  in  the  omnibus — 

A  jolly  little  crowd  of  us. 

We're  going  to  dine — we  four — up-town. 

It  will  be  late  when  we  come  down. 

The  seats  begin  to  fill,  and  though 

It  is  a  night  of  soft,  slow  snow, 

Some  youngsters  clamour  up  the  stair, 

And  sit  on  top  to  drink  the  air. 

The  bus  conductor  comes,  in  time, 
And  holds  his  hand  out  for  our  dime. 
He  calls  the  streets,  and  rings  the  bell, 
And  does  his  various  duties  well. 
The  Avenue,  aflame  with  stars, 
Is  crowded  with  swift  motor-cars; 
And  at  a  corner  now  and  then 
We  stop,  and  rush  along  again. 

The  bus  conductor  looks  at  us; 
His  eyes  are  young  and  mischievous, 
Yet  there's  a  lurking  sadness  too 
Within  those  depths  of  Irish  blue. 
He  seems  to  say,  "Your  young,  wild  feet, 
Can  dance  off  here  at  any  street! 
[57] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


Yes,  you  can  leave — and  dine  and  sup; 
While  I  must  ring  some  new  fares  up. 

"I'm  like  an  engine  on  a  track; 
I  first  go  down,  and  then  come  back. 
I'm  part  of  this  old  omnibus, 
And  Jove!  it  gets  monotonous!" 

Ah !  here's  our  street !  .   .  .  We  dined  till  ten, 
And  danced  till  midnight.     Home  again, 
Within  the  cosy  bus;  and  there 
The  same  conductor  took  our  fare ! 


[58] 


THE  BLIND 

THE  blind  man  fumbled  down  the  street, 
(How  far,  for  him,  the  street  must  wind!) 

I  heard  the  click  of  his  wretched  stick, 
His  thin,  "Please  help  the  blind!" 

I  hurried  past  him,  till  his  voice 
Was  lost,  like  gulls'  cries  far  at  sea. 

I  had  two  eyes,  but  saw  him  not: 
If  he  was  blind,  oh,  what  of  me! 


[59] 


TELEPHONES 

THINK  of  the  bells  that  are  ringing 
All  over  the  great  city ! 

Think  of  the  words  that  are  singing- 
Words  of  love,  and  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  number  only 
That  I  want  more  than  all. 

Strange  that  I,  who  am  lonely, 
Dare  not  enter  the  call! 


THE  PEOPLE  IN  THE  PARK 

THESE  are  the  city's  poets, 

These  people  in  the  park, 
Who  sit  and  watch  slow  shadows 

Melt  into  the  dark; 

Who  come  on  Maytime  evenings, 

Or  on  rich  nights  of  June, 
And  see  above  the  treetops 

The  bubble  of  the  moon; 

Who  listen  to  the  fountain 

That  tinkles  all  day  long, 
And  let  its  echo  lodge  with  them, 

An  anthem  and  a  song. 

Young  lovers  loiter  gladly 

In  many  a  leafy  place, 
And  look  with  the  old  wonder 

Into  each  other's  face. 

These  are  the  happy  poets 

Whom  nothing  can  dismay, 
Who  keep  wise  dreams  within  their  hearts 

That  none  can  take  away. 
[61] 


SUNDAY  EVENING 

I  SAW  a  pale  young  clerk  coming  home  from  the 

country, 

His  tired  wife  beside  him,  his  child  on  his  knee; 
In  his  hands  a  bunch  of  crushed  lilacs  and  wilting 

dogwood — 
But  in  his  heart  a  joy  unknown  to  me. 

The  Subway  clamoured  and  clattered;  the  lurching 

people, 
Weary,   after  long  tramps  through  a  scented 

lane, 
Seemed  like  phantoms  before  me  and  all  around 

me, 

Their  faces  like  ghosts  in  gardens  after  light 
rain. 

But   O,   they  were   real!     They   were   only  too 

human ! 
Their  eyes  held  the  eager  fire  of  dreams  and  of 

youth. 

And  I,  in  my  loneliness,  I  to  them  was  a  phantom; 
They  had  been  out  in  still  places;  they  had 
tasted  the  Truth. 

[62] 


SUNDAY  EVENING 


And  now  they  had  memories  for  a  week  of  days 

unending; 
Now  they  had  glamour  enough  to  carry  them 

through. 

And  only  I  was  alone  in  that  heaving  Subway — 
I,  an  idle  dreamer,  with  nothing  at  all  to  do. 


[63] 


ON  SEEING  A  NUN  IN  A  TAXICAB 

LITTLE  sister,  did  you  know, 

When  I  saw  you  through  the  glass  of  the  cab, 

That  your  life  held  as  great  contrasts 

As  the  lives  of  deposed  kings  and  czars? 

One  moment,  a  lonely  cell; 

Then  this  sudden  projection  into  flaming  Fifth 

Avenue ! 

How  strange  the  streets  must  have  seemed  to  you, 
Little  white  sister,  sitting  there  so  still! 

I  was  in  a  'bus, 

And  at  Forty-second  street  the  traffic  halted  us, 

Side  by  side,  and  I  could  almost  have  touched  you. 

I  peered  into  your  privacy, 

Like  the  fool  that  I  was, 

And  I   felt  ashamed  of  myself 

When  I  saw  in  your  hands  a  rosary; 

Your  lips  were  moving, 

And  I  turned  away. 

When  you  reached  your  destination, 
I  still  wonder,  unworldly  little  sister, 
If  you  realised  that  even  you 
Were  expected  to  tip  the  chauffeur! 

[64] 


SUNDAY  IN  AN  OFFICE  BUILDING 

THE  corridors  are  strangely  still; 
The  offices  are  bleak  and  chill. 
The  elevators  do  not  run 
On  busy  errands.     Life  seems  done, 
And  no  one  guards  the  marble  door 
Wherethrough,  on  Monday,  there  will  pour 
Hundreds — nay,   thousands — like   a   tide; 
Legions  that  cannot  be  denied. 

The  desks  are  empty;  mice  confer 

Like  ghouls  within  a  sepulchre. 

This  is  the  temporary  grave 

Of  volumes  over  which  men  slave. 

To-morrow  it  will  be  alive 

With  rushing  feet,  a  sounding  hive. 

Yet  for  these  few  brief  hours  it  knows 

The  stillness  of  the  dreaming  rose. 


AROUND  THE  CORNER 

AROUND  the  corner  I  have  a  friend, 

In  this  great  city  that  has  no  end; 

Yet  days  go  by,  and  weeks  rush  on, 

And  before  I  know  it  a  year  is  gone, 

And  I  never  see  my  old  friend's  face, 

For  Life  is  a  swift  and  terrible  race. 

He  knows  I  like  him  just  as  well 

As  in  the  days  when  I  rang  his  bell 

And  he  rang  mine.     We  were  younger  then, 

And  now  we  are  busy,  tired  men: 

Tired  with  playing  a  foolish  game, 

Tired  with  trying  to  make  a  name. 

"To-morrow,"  I  say,  "I  will  call  on  Jim., 

Just  to  show  that  I'm  thinking  of  him." 

But  to-morrow  comes — and  to-morrow  goes, 

And  the  distance  between  us  grows  and  grows. 

Around  the  corner! — yet  miles  away.  .  .  . 
"Here's  a  telegram,  sir.  .  .  ." 

"Jim  died  to-day." 

And  that's  what  we  get,  and  deserve  in  the  end 
Around  the  corner,  a  vanished  friend. 


[66] 


THE  USHER 

HERE  in  this  hall, 

Where  I  have  shown  people  to  their  respective 
places 

For  many  and  many  a  year, 

I  have  heard  innumerable  lectures, 

I  have  heard  hundreds  of  singers. 

Like  a  long  procession, 

Like  an  endless  lantern-slide 

They  have  marched  and  glided  before  me — 

Poets  from  England  and  France, 

Publicists  from  all  over  the  world, 

Pianists  from  Poland  and  Germany  and  Sweden, 

Baritones,  sopranos  and  contraltos  from  God 
knows  where; 

String  quartettes  and  individual  harpists, 

Dancers  and  elocutionists, 

Each  having  his  little  hour  of  triumph  and  rap 
ture, 

Or  his  terrible  moment  of  failure  and  dismay. 

I  have  seen  the  hall  crowded, 

And  alas !  I  have  seen  it  almost  empty — 

Forlorn  stretches  of  cane-bottomed  chairs. 

[67] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


Once,  when  a  returned  soldier  spoke  here, 

The  people  couldn't  get  in; 

And  once,  when  a  girl  from  North  Dakota, 

Frightened  almost  to  death  on  her  first  appear 
ance, 

Fainted  on  the  platform, 

And  had  to  be  carried  out, 

I  suffered  with  her  when  she  ignominiously  broke 
down. 

One  thing  comforted  me : 

There  were  only  forty-two  people  present. 

Sometimes  when  it  rains 

It  is  pitiful  to  see  what  small  crowds  turn  out. 
And  often  it  is  the  best  attractions  which  fail. 
Dull  missionaries  seem  to  be  able  to  pack  the 

house. 

I  suppose  they  give  tickets  away  to  their  relatives, 
Or  to  poor  Sunday-school  children 
And  their  poorer  parents  from  the  East  Side. 
I  know  very  well  that  there  is  no  money  taken  in 

at  the  box-office 
On  such  bleak  occasions. 

Students,  however,  pay  to  hear  great  artists, 
And  there  are  foreign  poets  who  reap  a  harvest 
Because  of  their  clever  managers. 
I  listen  to  them  all, 
For  they  strangely  interest  me. 
What  a  lot  of  wasted  energy  there  is  in  the  world! 

[68] 


THE  USHER 


What  a  lot  of  buncombe  and  silly  vanity! 

Any  one  with  a  hundred  dollars  can  hire  this  hall 

And  give  a  concert  or  a  reading — 

Think  of  it! 

But  I  don't  mind  that,  since  I  earn  my  living  here. 

Oh,  this  never-ceasing  procession  of  "talent" ! — 

An  army  of  mediocrity 

That  ought  to  be  out  fighting  and  really  working 

somewhere. 

Only  once  in  an  age  does  a  genius  come  along. 
It  is  pitiful. 

And  it  is  strange  that  after  three  years  and  a  half, 
When  so  many  others  have  come  and  gone, 
I  find  myself  thinking  about  that  little  singer  from 

North  Dakota 

Who  broke  down  and  fainted. 
I  have  completely  forgotten  her  name, 
But  her  face  forever  haunts  me.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what  became  of  her? 


[69] 


THE  MESSENGER  BOY 

WHEN  he  goes  whistling  down  the  street — 

His  eyes  are  young  and  young  his  feet — 

He  does  not  know  the  words  that  stand 

Like  rows  of  flame  within  his  hand. 

He  casually  rings  the  bell 

Of  42,  where  all  is  well, 

And  waits  there  in  the  vestibule, 

Where  it  is  hushed  and  clean  and  cool; 

A  careless  lad  who  does  not  guess 

The  words  he  brings  bring  emptiness, 

Bring  sorrow  and  engulfing  tears, 

And  change  the  smooth  march  of  the  years. 

The  door  is  opened.    Nevermore 

Will  one  pass  through  that  friendly  door. 

White  fingers  tear  the  envelope, 

White  fingers  through  the  message  grope. 

There  is  a  cry,  a  sound  of  feet.  .  .  . 

A  boy  goes  whistling  down  the  street. 


[70] 


IN  A  DEPARTMENT  STORE 

(The  building  that  formerly  housed  a  certain 
great  shop  in  New  York  has  been  turned  into  a 
hospital  for  wounded  soldiers.) 


WOMEN  used  to  stroll  through  these  aisles, 

Idly  looking  at  laces, 
Studying  the  new  styles, 

And  the  new  graces.  .  .  . 
Now,  if  they  walked  these  dim  defiles, 

They  would  see  only  faces: 

II 

Faces  of  boys  who  have  been 

Through  the  mud  and  the  mire, 

But  who  laugh,  and  chuckle,  and  grin 
In  their  bandaged  attire ; 

Smile,  since  deep  down  within, 
Their  souls  are  on  fire. 

in 

Where  the  counters  stood  yesterday, 
Covered  with  light  stuff, 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


And  you  thought  the  shop  gay 

With  its  delicate  bright  stuff, 
See  what  a  long  array 

Of  the  spiritual  right  stuff! 

IV 

This  was  once  but  a  mart; 

Here  salesgirl  and  shoe-man 
Played  a  diplomat's  part 

For  each  difficult  woman; 
Now  the  place  finds  its  heart — 

It  is  suddenly  human ! 

V 

These  lads  have  come  back — 

Oh,  the  long,  aching  aisles  of  them ! 

They  are  laid  on  pain's  rack — 

I  think  there  are  miles  of  them ! 

But  watch  their  lips  crack 

At  your  jokes!     See  the  smiles  of  them! 

VI 

And  there's  singing  here  now, 

And  the  movie's  bright  flash; 
Life  is  strange,  I  avow; 

Gone  are  cretonne  and  crash. 
See  that  lad's  tied-up  brow 

In  the  aisle  that  heard  "Cash!" 


IN  A  DEPARTMENT  STORE 


VII 

Here  are  rest  and  quiet 

Where  they  never  had  been; 
No  "bargain  day"  riot, 

No  bustle  and  din. 
This  stuff — you  can't  buy  it ! — 

God  laid  the  stock  in ! 


[73] 


WAR-TIME  PORTRAITS 


STEPHEN 

HE  was  a  quiet  little  man, 

The  simplest  soul  I  ever  knew; 
He  did  his  best,  and  no  one  can 

Find  any  better  thing  to  do. 
He  took  me  up  and  down  each  day — 

In  our  old  house  he  ran  the  lift; 
I'd  miss  him  if  he  went  away 

Even  for  one  short  hour's  shift. 


His  face  was  young  for  one  so  old, 

For  he  was  well  past  thirty-nine; 
Yet  lightly  the  swift  years  had  rolled, 

And  never  left  a  single  sign. 
And  so  we  named  him  Peter  Pan — 

The  boy  eternal  in  him  dwelt; 
How  well  that  ancient  car  he  ran! — • 

The  job  was  his  for  life,  we  felt. 

He  loved  to  read;  and  every  night 
I  would  discuss  the  news  with  him. 

I  gave  him  books,  both  grave  and  bright- 
Dickens,  and  Riley,  and  "Lord  Jim." 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


But  when  that  frightful  August  came, 
And  the  base  Hun  revealed  his  power, 

Stephen  gave  up  the  fiction  game, 
And  read  the  papers  by  the  hour. 

He  used  to  say,  in  those  first  days 

When  Europe  rocked  with  awful  war, 
His  brain,  like  mine,  in  a  thick  haze, 

"I  wonder  what  they're  fighting  for!" 
I  tried  to  tell  him  of  a  land 

Gone  mad  with  love  of  greed  and  lust. 
He  did  not  seem  to  understand, 

And  said  he  thought  I  was  unjust. 

Then  came  the  time  when  we  joined,  too, 

The  mighty  conflict  Over  There; 
YOG  heard  men  say,  "What  can  I  do?" 

And,  "Lord!  I  want  to  do  my  share!" 
I  held  a  paper  in  my  hand 

That  morning  when  I  went  down-town. 
Steve  looked  at  it.     "I  understand 

At  last,"  he  said;  and  took  me  down. 

He  didn't  talk  much  after  that; 

The  thing  was  getting  him,  I  knew; 
Sometimes  he  failed  to  touch  his  hat, — 

Not  that  I'd  ever  asked  him  to. 
Oh,  no!     For  Stephen  was  our  friend; 

He'd  run  that  car  for  twenty  years, 
[78] 


STEPHEN 


And  knew  the  house  from  end  to  end,  — 
Its  laughter,  and  its  pain  and  tears. 

The  weeks  rolled  by.     Conscription  came; 

They  called  the  fine  lads  out  to  die. 
"By  Jove!"  said  Stephen.     "It's  a  shame!"  .  . 

"Well,  what  else  could  we  do?"  said  I. 
"You  don't  quite  understand  me,  sir. 

I   was  just  thinking.  .  .  ."     Nothing  more; 
The  elevator  gave  a  stir, 

And  very  soon  I  reached  my  floor. 

It  was  in  June  that  Stephen  left; 

I  missed  our  faithful  Peter  Pan. 
The  house  seemed  curiously  bereft 

Without  the  quiet  little  man. 
He  never  had  been  sick  a  day, 

And  so  we  asked  about  him.     Then 
We  learned  that  he  had  gone  away 

To  try  to  join  the  fighting  men! 

It  seems  that  when  they  called  the  draft 

Stephen  was  in  the  foremost  line. 
"How  old  are  you?"  the  General  laughed. 

"Why,  sir,  I'm — let's  see — twenty-nine!" 
"The  deuce  you  are!"  the  General  said. 

"You'll  never  see  twice  that  again! 
You're  growing  grey.     We  want  instead 

A  million  of  the  younger  men." 

[79 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


The  younger  men!     Yes,  Peter  Pan, 

To  whom  the  years  had  been  so  kind, 
Was  not  a  boy  now,  but  a  man; 

And  we  who  loved  him  had  been  blind. 
For  Love  is  blind  indeed.     And  yet 

I'm  glad  it  is;  for  who  would  see 
The  grief  this  war  has  grimly  set 

On  faces  dear  to  you  and  me? 

Rejected!     Peter  Pan  too  old 

To  join  the  ranks  and  fight  the  fight! 
His  hair  had  lost  its  brilliant  gold, 

His  eyes  their  sparkle,  in  a  night. 
Rejected!     Yes,  they  wanted  boys, 

They  wanted  only  youth  for  this! 
Mars  wanted  only  radiant  toys 

To  toss  in  Hell's  metropolis! 

Back  to  our  quiet  house  he  came, 

The  young-old  Stephen.     I  could  see 
The  vanished  youth,  the  vanished  flame, 

And  the  new  awful  tragedy. 
Yet  is  he  not  a  soldier,  lit 

With  fire?     Is  not  his  cage  a  trench 
Wherein  his  spirit  does  its  bit 

For  us,  for  England,  and  the  French? 


THE  YOUNG  AMBULANCE-DRIVER 

I 

LONG,  long  before  America  entered  the  War, 

My  young  frend  went  to  France 

To  do  his  bit  for  Democracy. 

He  drove  an  ambulance  through  blood  and  mud, 

Through  rain  and  sleet,  through  darkness   and 

through  starlight; 

And  then  he  came  back  home  to  gather  funds 
For  many  a  needed  motor-car  Out  There. 

I  heard  him  tell  the  story  of  his  work 

With  no  pride  in  his  voice,  but  only  tears — 

The   suppressed  tears   of  a  man  who  has  seen 

suffering, 

And  knows  at  last  Life's  deeper  currents; 
A  man  who  has  encountered  Reality, 
And  almost  dreads  to  tell  of  it. 

I  shall  never  forget  his  words; 
I  shall  never  forget  the  hidden  sob  in  his  voice — 
There  are  some  things  the  years  cannot  blot  out. 

[81] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


II 

A  few  nights  later  I  met  him  at  the  house  of  an 

acquaintance. 

A  sparkling  dinner  it  was,  with  red  wine  flowing, 
And  trivial  laughter  and  more  trivial  talk. 
Light  women  fawned  on  my  friend, 
For  they  heard  he  had  been  to  France 
And  had  been  made  a  Major. 
They  asked  him  silly  questions  of  the  conflict; 
Then,   scarcely  waiting  for  his  patient  answers, 
They  turned  away,  or  hurried  into  the  next  room 
To  play  bridge  or  poker  with  steel  magnates  and 

professional  diners-out. 

ill 

I  watched  the  young  Major's  face, 

When,  to  oblige  his  hostess, 

He  was  good  enough  to  make  a  fourth  at  a  cer 
tain  bridge  table. 

How  less  than  nothing  the  cards  seemed  to  him! 

How  less  than  nothing  this  unfeeling  group  of 
people ! 

I  knew  by  his  eyes — his  tragic  eyes — 

That  he  was  thinking  of  wounded  men  in  Flanders, 

And  cries  of  pain  in  the  night  in  rain-drenched 
Ypres ; 

Or  perhaps  of  that  poor,  brave  fellow  he  had 
told  us  about — 

[82] 


THE  YOUNG  AMBULANCE-DRIVER 

The  one  who  had  lost  his  arms,  but  smiled  and 

said, 
"I  offered  my  life  to  France,  but  she  took  only 

my  arms!" 

Finally  he  got  up  and  went  quietly  away. 

A  young  girl  muttered,  "What  a  curious  fellow 

that  young  Major  is ! 
And  he  played  that  rubber  so  badly!" 

IV 

The  next  morning  I   heard  that  he  was  going 

back — 
Going  back  from  hollow  joy  to  actual  sorrow. 

I  wonder  if  I  can  go  with  him? 


[83] 


JACK  LE  MAR 

"THERE'S  a  job  to  do — and  we've  got  to  do  it!" 
That's  what  he  said.     And  he  went  right  to  it. 

He  followed  the  dirty  work  clean  through. 
"What  else,"  he  said,  "can  a  fellow  do?" 

It  isn't  a  lark  to  go  to  a  camp 

Where  the  food  is  poor  and  the  cots  are  damp; 

To  drill  in  the  sun  through  the  Summer  days 
Till  your  legs  are  sore  and  your  brain's  in  a  haze. 

"War  isn't  the  fun  that  you  hear  it  is; 
It's  as  hard  as  nails  when  the  bullets  whiz. 

"It's  filthy  and  cold  in  a  narrow  trench; 

But  you've  got  to  help  the  English  and  French. 

"You've  got  to  get  down  to  the  facts  as  they  are; 
There's  a  mess  in  the  world,"  says  Jack  Le  Mar. 

"Let's  clean  it  up,  and  then  come  back 
To  the  good,  smooth  days  on  a  level  track. 

"But  now — there's  a  job,  and  we've  got  to  do  it!" 
That's  what  he  said.     And  he  went  right  to  it. 

[84] 


JIM  SMITH 

JIM  SMITH  was  never  troubled  by  the  war. 
He  rather  smiled  at  it,  and  simply  said, 
"Well,  some  day  everybody  will  be  dead, 

And  so  why  worry?     What  they  scrappin'  for? 

"It  doesn't  matter  much  who  wins  this  row; 

They're  all  insane.  .   .   .  The  Lusitania?    Gee! 

If  /  was  warned,  I'd  never  go  to  sea. 
Belgium?     Oh,   what's  the   difference   anyhow!" 

And  so  he  rambled  on.     A  neutral?     Yes; 
Part  pacifist,  and  part  Pro-German  too — 
Though  to  admit  the  latter  would  not  do; 

He  realised  that  much,  at  least,  I  guess. 

No  issues  bothered  him!     He  smoked  and  drank, 
Went  to  the  races,  never  gave  a  cent 
For   Red  Cross  work — but  took  his  nourish 
ment; 

What  matter  if  another  steamer  sank? 

"I'm  sick  of  readin'  of  this  rotten  War! 

What's  at  the  Strand  this  week?  Come  on, 
let's  go. 

A  war  film?  Say,  that  ain't  my  kind  of  show. 
Nothin'  but  guns!  .  .  .  No  wonder  I  get  sore. 

[85] 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


"Well,  let's  go  down  to  Liichow's.    I'm  all  in.  ... 

No  Pilsener?     What  the  devil  do  you  mean? 

No  Miinchener?     Listen!     Can  you  beat  that, 

Gene? 
I  told  you  this  war'd  hit  us !   .  .  .   Make  it  gin!" 


[86] 


YOUNG  RUPERT 

His  hair  was  golden  as  a  girl's;  his  cheeks  were 

pink  and  white; 
His  hands  were  delicate  and  soft;  he  hated  men 

who  fight. 
He  never  argued,  never  raised  his  gentle  voice  a 

bit; 

If  anything,  he  was  too  fine;  he  was  too  exquisite. 
But  when  they  needed  youngsters,  those  early 

days  in  France, 
Young  Rupert  packed  his  grip  and  went  to 

drive  an  ambulance. 

He  had  a  soft,  bland  way  with  him;  he  passed 

the  drinks  and  smokes; 

He  hated  ribald  stories,  he  detested  filthy  jokes. 
He  loved  the  lovely  things  of  life ;  he  played — ah ! 

what  a  touch! 
Some  said  he  was  effeminate ;  men  didn't  like  him 

much. 
But  when  the  Allies  needed  help,  young  Rupert 

seized  his  chance; 
He  didn't  balk;  he  didn't  talk;  he  simply  sailed 

for  France. 


A  WORLD  OF  WINDOWS 


His   light  companions  loitered  here — the  chaps 
who  laughed  at  him 

Because  he  was  too  "precious";  and  because  his 
waist  was  slim. 

They're  guzzling  beer  in  dim  cafes,  they're  smok 
ing  strong  cigars, 

They're  telling  us  what  they  would  do  with  kaisers, 

kings,  and  czars. 
But  Rupert's  on  the  firing-line;  he's  helping  all 

he  can. 

Effeminate?    Not  on  your  life!     He's  every 
inch  a  man! 


[88] 


A  CERTAIN  ENGLISH  ACTOR 

His  face  was  like  a  cameo;  his  hair 

Was  golden  as  the  sun.     He  went  away 
To  fight  for  England  on  a  winter's  day; 

We  said  good-bye  upon  our  lodging  stair. 

He'd  read  the  bulletins  in  Herald  Square, 

Till  they  got  on  his  nerves.    His  face  grew  grey. 
"The  bulldog  needs  me!"  he  would  grimly  say. 

And  ten  days  later  he  was  Over  There. 

I  never  heard  from  him.     There  came  no  news 
Through    all    that    fighting    host — until    last 

week.  .  .  :, 

He  has  a  crippled  arm,  a  shattered  cheek — 
How  quickly  he  responded  to  his  cues! 
Can  he  come  back  to  trifling  dramas  now, 
When   Death  has   almost  kissed  him  on  the 
brow? 


[89] 


WILLIE  LAMB 

HE  danced  through  life,  through  many  a  cabaret; 

At  Babylonian  feasts  he  graced  the  floor, 

While  the  loud  orchestra  its  tones  would  pour 
Like  crimson  wine,  until  the  break  of  day. 
His  face  was  young,  and  weak.     We  used  to  say, 

"Here    is    one    made    for    laughter — nothing 
more. 

A  lad  whose  pagan  beauty  we  deplore — 
An  Ariel,  or  perhaps  a  Dorian  Gray." 

Yet  high  above  the  music  of  the  dance, 

Young  Lamb  had  heard  the  bugles  Over  There, 
And  while  we   sat  and  dreamed,   in   a   strange 

trance, 
He    left   the    shallow    Broadway   glitter    and 

glare, 

And  gave  his  boyish  heart  to  stricken  France. 
Ah !  call  him  light  and  foolish — if  you  dare ! 


[90] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBBAKY, 
BERKELEY 


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